Of Oz
by CCisGod
Summary: Javert isn't The Wicked Witch of the West. And he isn't the villain either. Javert/OFC. AU.


A/n: So, this happened.

There are few things in life that Emile Javert resents, truly. The one at the forefront of his mind is resenting his mother for naming him Emile. A second, would be people who break the law, but that comes from his life choices and a small side effect from working in law enforcement.

If he really had to go as far as to think of a third thing, it would be events like these.

If the fact that he had to show up wasn't enough, it's the end of a particularly long day and it's another day over. The moment Emile Javert walked in, and was immediately reminded why and how much he hates these kind of things. These social events that he's obligated to go to. He almost wants to right his tie, straighten the damned thing that he's straightened twenty or so times before he arrived.

Part of him thinks about how he, even though it's silly, is how out of place he feels. It's not even from his social upbringing, but more he thinks from his job. He feels more like a part of the serving staff than he does enjoying the party.

It's easier to tell where your place is when you're in uniform.

Javert's eyes are sharp even as they drift around the room when he enters. Though, to call the place where the gala is taking place a 'room' would be the understatement of the century. The place is massive, with an empty space at the center that's most likely a dance floor. But furthermore, the 'room' is an off shade of white mostly, making the impossibly large, appear even larger, all decorated with rich golden trimmings.

As bearing the privileged title of Inspector for three years now, it's far from his first time being at one of these fundraiser-galas. With the way the world works, he's all but assured that it's also far from the last time either. He's seasoned more than some, less than most. Most of "seasoned" employees of the department are now ancient and wealthy beyond his imagination. Even though that's so, this place is impossibly nice.

But instead he refrains from fidgeting, and stands tall when he walks in.

Though it would not take much, if one was too look closely enough, it would be obvious that Javert does not have the same background as many of the people here do. Much of his stiffness stems from being a man who was born with the money or class that surrounds him. The power around him is suffocating, until he's all but swallowed whole,

Javert is a man, no better or worse than any other, and as any other would, so he does as he can to hide his demons.

Being the sort of man who is constantly self-aware, Javert always keeps mind of his stature and posture. Currently, it's fuelled more so by the fact that the crowd is filled with the people who bankroll everything. It's all dollar signs around him, and he's got to keep it coming, for both his and the entire department's sake.

Though, after all introductions and obligatory conversing is said and done, he heads to the small bar at the back. Let it be said that Javert was not known to be a social butterfly, or required to play the part of one after a while, and he was glad of that. Even though it would be much easier to leave, it's too early to do so. In that case, he'd rather be out of sight and out of mind for now.

But it's not long after that he sits down, the hairs on the back of his neck stand upright. He can feel someone watching him, which is almost never a good thing. He turns his head slightly to the left, barely glancing, to see who's staring at him, at this place.

He knows he's no good at hiding, or blending in, but he tries. It's usually easiest to be forgotten about, more or less, at these large social events.

He's startled into looking straight ahead more than anything else when he sees who it is.

It's a pretty girl, but she's scowling and he's never seen her before. Javert is confused, an emotion he rarely experiences, especially as he tries to think of why. A pretty girl is sitting directly to his left, one stool away from him. Javert's mind races as he tries to imagine just why this girl is staring at him.

_Girlfriend of a con? Maybe._

_Mother of a con? Also possible, but unlikely._ Though she still looked to be under thirty and well out of his league, Javert also knew that looks were deceiving.

But when he turns around, he realizes (her gaze not on him, but another) he couldn't have been staring at him- he had only been in the way of her sight.

He turns again to see where the unfortunate individual is who this girl _is_ glaring at.

It's some guy built like a brick house. The guy is dancing on the floor, with some girl he doesn't waste a glance at. But this is obviously annoying the very pretty girl next to him. She seems to like them six foot two and modelesque looks. Despite all of this, she's still staring through him.

A small part of him,

and a very small part at that, wished he were actually the one being glared at.

But that would be ridiculous.

And nothing about Emile Javert is ridiculous.

Especially when it concerns women.

When he chances at another glance at her, it's apparent that she's even further out of his league than he had originally thought. Though his clothes are clean and nice and efficient and what was required for this event, her clothes look expensive and she reeks of money.

Her posture is tall and reminiscent of growing up moneyed and reminds him of cotillion classes.

It's all very reminiscent of his childhood, feeling that separation of classes and the snubbing from higher society.

His eyes drop to the glass he's half holding, half resting on the table. Of their own accord, his eyes drop further and to the left, to her shoes. He never understood why women subjected themselves to shoes that were so inconvenient and precarious. But, he was still a man, and the pit of his stomach gives a tug at the sight of the way her feet fit in the sparkly red high heels.

'_There's no place like home_' his brain supplies. And furthermore, if she's Dorothy, then he wonders where her Kansas is.

He's not quite sure what's so sensual about the arch of her foot and and striking lines that are created. And he's still staring at her feet, which is why he finds it strange that they're suddenly moving closer to him. His hair stands on edge again, with the knowledge that someone is definitely looking at him now.

His head sort of snaps up to meet the pretty girl's eyes, and he's suddenly noticing everything about her.

One eyebrow is raised, and her eyes are curious. And how she's much prettier when she isn't scowling, which is saying something. Her face carries a sort of bemused half-smile, and she speaks.

"My Kansas is downtown, about five miles south of here. Though I'm having trouble deciding if that's one of the worst or best pick up lines I've ever heard."

Apparently his Wizard of Oz quip hadn't been silent. She inhales through her nose before speaking again. He's slightly transfixed by the red lipstick she has on.

"So if I'm Dorothy, who does that make you?"

Part of him is pleased that she seems to be the kind of girl who thinks on her feet, but he's still very distracted now, what with the bit of alcohol running through his system and her still looking quite attractive. And he's more than a bit flustered, and ashamed that he's lost some of his brain to mouth filter.

This time, he's more conscious of when his mouth opens and what comes out of it.

"Just one of the farmhands."

Though clearly, not entirely so, or else he would've been silent or at least have said something entirely more reasonable.

She looks dubious. "I don't think that you mean that, unless you mean that you're the scarecrow or the tin man."

I'm nobody. This time, his mouth stays silent and he's thankful for that. He stands up then, and even with the ridiculous heels, she's a good inch or two shorter than him.

It feels good to be the one on higher ground.

"I can assure you of which, I'm neither." He refrains from bowing his head in respect, an old and odd habit of his.

"In that case, we must find some way of finding out who you are. I'm Rose, Rose Dreyfus."

The name rings a bell but he can't place why. Common courtesy demands he responds, and so he does.

"Inspector Javert, Miss Dreyfus."

He can't fully explain why this pains him to say this. But it does, and the pain doesn't fade right away.

"I really hate these things." All that's running through his mind is how she looks as if she's born and bred for this sort of event, so this sort of comment from her unnerves him. As Inspector, it's more or less his job to be able to profile people. If he's becoming shit at his job, then that doesn't bode well for his future, let alone promotion.

To escape any wrong statements this time, Javert takes another sip of his drink before putting it down for the rest of the evening, and nods.

She levels him with a look as she speaks. "I can't fuel the entire conversation. Or you can tell me honestly that you have such distaste for me and my conversation that you wish to leave."

"I prefer to be alone, honestly." The words leave his lips. In an instant, he's stuck between hoping she'll leave and that'll be that, or laugh it off. Distaste is not the word he would use for how he feels about her.

She stares at him for a moment, and tilts her head slightly.

"That's because you've not had the pleasure of my company," she purrs in a terrible put on Russian accent, "Inspector." She ends with a cat-like grin, and looks up at him with smouldering eyes, highlighted by artfully applied makeup.

Javert's eyebrow raises. A slow moment passes. She frowns.

"Wow, nothing. Not even a smile."

"I'm going outside." In vain hope, Javert flees. It feels like fleeing, at least. A seemingly wealthy, smart woman is trying to converse with him, even though he was staring at her feet, and he flees. Not to mention, she was quite attractive.

He hoped that the chill in the night air would help clear his mind.

"Want me to grab your drink?" Her question is all but innocent, despite the tone she uses.

When Javert looks up, he sees the stars, he tries in vain to his mind straighter. The stars. His crutch, aid and there during any time of need. If he was feeling alone, their presence was comforting. His mother had been an astronomy teacher, and the stars gave him a connection to her and his family. She once told him that her love for him was like all of the stars in the sky- infinite and ever expanding.

It's so much quieter out here, even though he's not alone. And though the light from inside bleeds onto the balcony, the light from the moon and stars light up the street below.

Javert is rarely a patient man, but he can be if it's necessary. This is especially true for when he's on patrol, or serving in anyway. He's tried to stay as quiet possible without being rude. Dead on his feet, he's ready to leave, or at least leave the gala. He won't say it aloud, but he thinks she's good company.

She makes idle conversation and questions that don't disturb the peace for him. The worst of these galas are the crowds and the overwhelming feeling surrounding him. He learns that she's one of the newly added lawyers, fresh from a firm of incompetent people who apparently barely passed the bar, according to her. He also learns that he really enjoys viewing her in red.

"So, I don't suppose that I'm able-bodied enough to be in law enforcement." Her voice is bláse, and she looks to him over her shoulder. Her hands rest upon the balcony's edge, and she looks over the city below.

His lips quirk.

"I wouldn't know." He clears his throat, attempting to take away the gruff tones that have bled through. Though, in a fleeting moment, his brain takes a turn into the gutter, thinks how she looks more than able-bodied.

She makes a noncommittal noise and turns around.

"What are your department's views on fraternization?" The way she asks him makes him almost uncomfortable by how suspicious he feels of her.

He give the most straitlaced and textbook answer he can manage, with that.

"Fraternization beyond professional boundaries is expressly forbidden."

She laughs, and her laugh is good champagne, rich and light and airy.

"Then I suppose it's a good thing I don't work in your department." Rose replies, just as nonchalant as one would say about the weather.

She's somehow suddenly standing in front of him, close. Her hands snake around his neck rather quickly, and she pulls him down and crushes her lips against his.

Oh.

The back of Javert's brain reminds vaguely that he should really do something about this assault.

His arms move of their own accord and slowly curl around her lower back, pulling her closer.

_Oh._

He can't really fully form a thought, and it's all a jumble of conflicting ideas.

_This isn't right._

She feels right, though. Javert feels that it's him that's in the wrong here.

Everything about her from the attitude to being significantly more forward than him.

She's so well made, and oh, he means that in every way possible. She's gorgeous, of course, and so feminine that he's somehow losing his sensibilities. She's witty, he's seen that already, and intelligent. Though, kissing him doesn't add to her intelligence by his standards. She can hold herself, and doesn't seem to mind being on her own.

To be honest, he's a bit enthralled by her. Has been since his eyes kept drifting back to her.

The fabric of her dress draws him in. Soft and intoxicating in one. She's curved, and he feels in the way she's pressed against him.

All of the stars are aligned for this moment, he has no doubt of that.

He knows he's no prize, and he feels so... _renewed_, and yes, he's not completely numb below the waist.

He feels so very strong, and ten feet tall.

Rose's tongue runs across his lips. He shudders at the contact and his lips part. To be fully honest, he's not really experienced with this sort of thing, but he considers himself a pretty fast learner, and Javert's thankful for that.

She pulls her mouth away to nip at his ear. He breath ghosts over his ear and she whispers.

"Let's get out of here."

The way that she leads him to the door of the balcony, Javert begins to reconsider this. Suddenly, what was quirky seems crazy and a little too spontaneous.

"Wait."

She looks back at him, puzzled.

"Let's meet at my car. Black coupe, yellow license plate. Actually, I'll just pick you up at the front." Rose lets go of his hand. He squares his shoulders and straightens himself out the best he can before walking back into the gala. People are dancing in the middle still, in dizzying circles. Head held high, Javert makes his way to the exit, avoiding his superiors withe the skill of of an expert.

He may or may not be walking on air, with the thought of taking Rose home tonight, sex or no sex. She's obviously no blushing virgin, but she's more than that. He's actually enjoying this strange company.

Javert steels himself for the implications of a one night stand. She was a young woman, with new age labels on sex, and the strength of women. He'll let her decide if she wants this to just be a one night stand.

When he makes it to his car, Javert feels electrified. He pulls up to the front, and she's waiting anxiously outside. He rolls down the tinted window to show her that it's him. The electricity running through his spine doesn't subside when she gets in the car.

He drives them to his home, with the patience of a saint and his remaining dignity, they move to his bed, with her roaming hands and teasing, promising words.

But she's unspoiled, and he feels as if he's dirtying her by touching her. Still he feels as if each time he touches her he leaves a mark or bruise that ruins her. He's panting and she's moaning and he can't take it much longer.

They're like teenagers, making out and all frottage, no skin to skin contact. She's full on his lap, grinding down and it's making him grit his teeth and lose his head. Her dress is hiked up, the soft material bunched on her thighs, one of his hands is gripping her hip through the material. His other hand is on her waist, thumb rubbing small circles. It's a moment later he remembers that even though he feels like a teenager, he's no longer seventeen and he can touch her as well.

His eyes snap open and him out of this passionate haze. She's making him lose focus of what's important and he barely knows her _(his kryptonite, indeed)_, she doesn't know the power she holds over him.

He's trying to think of the words to say to get them to somewhere legal to continue, hopefully. He's almost light headed from all of the 'excitement', and wants desperately.

"Let's-," his fist word comes out as a gasp, so he tries again but nothing comes out. Rose nods vigorously at him. Javert attempts to focus on removing his own clothing but becomes distracted when she removes her dress. Then, he hastens. _God she's pretty._

Though not the first time he's fucked a girl, and suddenly, he prays upon his lucky stars its not the last time either. It's been awhile, the unbidden thought enters his mind. Now isn't the time for self-doubt. She's looking at him expectantly, and moves onto his bed. There are brief moments that pass by in a blur for Javert.

Everything comes through with sudden clarity. Javert's positioning himself over her, braced on one arm, and takes a breath before guiding himself in slowly.

And then, it hits him, when he's fully inside of her, holding himself steady for a brief moment. This is for her as much as its for him.

And not just in the simple act of pleasure, that's a factor, of course. He isn't completely inexperienced, or selfish. He'll be giving his all in that, to say the least.

But, right here, right now he still can't fully fathom how or why, with him, that is. The look on her face is almost happy, if not for the tiny crease on her brow. She looks so hopeful and desperate that he feels inadequate. Not to mention, his head is swimming with the pleasure he's feeling, and thinking coherently is becoming difficult.

Rose isn't quiet in bed, which is distracting in a decidedly positive way. His head is almost continuously buried in the crook of her neck, his mouth moving with barely vocal mutterings against her skin and open-mouthed kisses. Her legs wrap tightly around his waist, shoeless heels digging into his backside.

As Javert pushes faster, her every move seems to be aimed at ending this quickly. Her cries grow louder, and he grits his teeth. These are muscles he isn't used to using, but so, _so_ pleasurable to use. By some miracle, he feels her spasm and give a last shout before he comes with a low groan, breathing uneven and hard.

He pulls out and rolls over onto his back.

He knows he can't be enough, but by the stars he'll bloody well try. He wants to have and to hold, and more, so much more. Age has made him overly sentimental.

But he saw through the lies she told, but didn't question her once. Saw the flashes of emotion he couldn't place and spoke no words. He knew nothing about her yet wanted to know. She was lonely, that much was obvious. She omitted truths and lied, and she seemed so practiced at it.

Her whole being could be a lie.

But even Javert knew his imagination wasn't that good. He looks over at her one last time, seeing the contented smile fitted across her face, and eyes closed. It's the last image he sees become he succumbs to sleep.

When he awakes the next morning, she's gone.

It's for the best, he supposes.

A/n: I have no excuse. Only that I find Russel Crowe exceedingly attractive.  
And I like dropping Wizard of Oz references everywhere.


End file.
